


A Work of Art

by StagsInSilence



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Drawing, Hannibal Big Bang, Hannibal misses his ward, Paternal Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-21
Updated: 2016-09-21
Packaged: 2018-08-16 11:07:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8100136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StagsInSilence/pseuds/StagsInSilence
Summary: Hannibal can't sleep in his cage and draws the thing that is haunting him; Abigail Hobbs.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2016 Hannibal Big Bang! 
> 
> Artwork by [m-oarts](http://m-oarts.tumblr.com) posted in the end notes.

Abigail Hobbs had twice died by his hand.

He dreamt about her a lot these days, the blood that poured from her throat dark and glistening on his skin, the life slowly slipping out of her as her sparkling eyes turned dull. It left him unsettled more because the dreams occurred rather than because of what they showed him. The dreams themselves were reminiscent of his sweet Mischa; another young death that had been preventable.

Hannibal shook away the thought. His mind was confusing innocent Mischa’s murder with the necessary – although unfortunate – death of Abigail. In the dark, Hannibal climbed off his cot and moved to the table where his drawing supplies rested. He would do what he always did when plagued by distaste. He would draw.

The light was dim, but he had dealt with worse, as he gathered his focus and picked up his pencil. He closed his eyes, letting his attention wander to Abigail’s room, the familiar chords of the first aria in the Goldberg Variations playing softly as he moved down the darkened hallway in his mind. Familiar suited thoughts concerning his ward and the softness complimented his mood. A tender reminder of the prodigy that could have been.

As Hannibal’s pencil touched the cheap paper Alana had granted him, he began with Abigail’s jaw. He admired the bone structure of the girl’s face and worked upwards from her chin just as he would when he caressed her. Her jaw was sturdy, smooth, like that of a marble statue. As he sketched, Hannibal could just barely feel the softness of her skin beneath his fingers, the twitch of muscle as his touch made the girl smile.

With the shape of her skull in place, he moved next to Abigail’s lips. They were lush and tender, always a soft pink that could have at any time been natural colouring or a gloss of some kind. But never did Hannibal see them polluted by the dark stains of lipstick, and he was grateful for that. The harsh colours of modern make-up did not suit Abigail. Such a lovely mouth that was so capable of twisting the words that came out of it yet so undeniably trustworthy. A girl that had been trained well in saying what she needed to, to ensure her safety. Admirable. Very admirable.

From her lips, Hannibal moved upwards to the large, doe eyes that were so perceptive that, even now, he smiled at how much Abigail was able to see. Those large, blue eyes were aware of when someone was lying to her, they knew when someone was trying to use her. They saw when it was necessary to play along and when it was time to run. Every time, she knew. Except for once. Except for that night in the kitchen when she trusted him more than Will. It was her one mistake. Will had betrayed him, and Hannibal retaliated by taking something from him. It was the unspoken  _ quid pro quo  _ to be filled between rivals. Nothing more. Right?

Hannibal filled in Abigail’s long, beautiful hair, the few freckles on her nose, the scar at her pale throat, and looked over his work with a sigh. His pencil slipped from his fingers, bouncing against the metal of the table before rolling to the floor with a clatter.  He folded his hands under his chin and carefully ran his eyes over every detail. He missed Abigail and what she could have become. They could have had a great life together, the three of them. A murder family, as Miss Lounds had called it.

But it was too late for that now, and it was foolish to dwell on such things.

Hannibal rose from his chair and returned to bed, the thin blanket only just large enough to cover up to his shoulders.

“Goodnight, Abigail,” he whispered.

**Author's Note:**

> 


End file.
